


we only have ourselves

by Hibibun



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Allusions to Parental Abuse, Character Study, Gen, Grief, Guilt, Not Beta Read, Parental Death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hibibun/pseuds/Hibibun
Summary: Martin's mother dies. He isn't as sad about it as he thinks he should be, but when you have a mother like that, is it really so strange?Peter knows all about estranged family and gives his two cents.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you ever wish someone was there for you to tell you it's okay to not be upset when a parent you weren't on good terms with dies. maybe that person could have been someone else besides peter lukas for martin, but. well. 
> 
> anyway enjoy!
> 
> (added both the & and / tag because you can read this however way you want. i may or may not return to this and do a continuation that is eventually slash, but you can read it as either)

“I... see. Yes, I’m okay, she… never mentioned anything, but—mhmm, alright. Did she… leave anything? Ah, okay, I’ll be up as soon as I can and… yes she wanted to be buried. Okay.”

Martin ends the call and stares at his phone. There’s a hollowing ache settling in, which makes it difficult to tell whether he wants to cry because he’s genuinely upset or relieved. The longer he focuses on that second feeling, does a spiral of shame unfurl in his stomach because he shouldn’t feel that way about his mother dying. He has nothing left now. It is as freeing as it is empty.

He takes a shaky breath as at present it can’t be handled. The nurses said it was sudden, but he has a feeling his mother has known for a while—just didn’t want to tell him evidently. Martin never got to say goodbye, but what would there be to even say.

He’s still at work. There’s statements to record, follow up calls to make and filing to do. The head archivist office is empty too though, and that’s another wide open sore he doesn’t know how to handle either. Somehow the archives have only grown even quieter than before, and that’s probably the only thing that let’s Martin handle the rest of his shift. The solace to have whatever breakdown he may or may not be having in peace with Basira in the library upstairs, and Melanie who knows where. 

Once he’s composed enough, his lunch break ends up being spent discussing the paperwork involved for the time off he needs to take care of this with Rosie, and a couple other calls. His mouth feels like it’s full of glass as he tells Rosie he’s okay and means it. For each moment Martin accepts that he really isn’t as heartbroken over her death as he should be, it chips at his heart even more. He’d never really managed to feel like a good son, but surely that must be the worst thing of all? To have your own mother pass and feel relief. Like she was just a burden he could now be rid of. The circumstances are unique, and he almost agrees that he’d like to go home, but oddly the thought of doing so feels worse. Really, there isn’t anywhere he can think of that he’d like to go right now.

He lets out a surprised yelp as the new director who he’d yet to properly meet aside from two very awkward conversations prior is suddenly in the tiny assistant’s office with him. Martin doesn’t really know what to expect having barely conversed with him. From the vague accounts about the sea captain Peter Lukas in statements, he certainly seems as much of a specter as the Lukas family has been described. At least, he felt that much until a large palm is presented his way for a handshake. The smile accompanying it is hollow, but it definitely distracts him from initial impressions of the sea-weathered, pale man who drifted in quiet as a ghost.

“Hello Martin. Rosie said you’d likely be down here,” he starts, hand still waiting, “I’ve been meaning to come down and have a chat—is now a bad time?”

Martin warily, and mostly out of politeness, numbly takes Peter’s hand. It’s cold and as perfunctory as expected. They’ve already been introduced, but apparently whatever conversation this will entail is business related enough to warrant it. Not to mention it, he can’t say he remembers their previous conversations too well.

“Well, what is it that you want? I-It isn’t the best time, but honestly I don’t think there’d be a better one,” Martin explains with a dry laugh. Peter seems unaffected by his tone, breezing onto the subject at hand.

“Couple things actually, I’ll get the easy stuff out of the way first. Any news about our Archivist?”

“No? I don’t think so—Basira would have said something, probably. I haven’t been by anyway,” Martin bites the inside of his cheek as this isn’t something he really wants to discuss, especially not right now. It started to get more painful each time he’d go and see there was no change. For two months, Jon has been in that not quite dead state, and with his own mother’s death now fresh and painful, the emotions are mixing. His chest aches because maybe for Jon’s sake too it would be better if he could just pass, as much as the thought actually hurts.

“Hmm… well one less thing to worry about. On that subject though, I wanted to see how you felt about a _promotion_ of sorts when you return. Condolences, by the way.”

Martin tells himself it’s the way he brushes it aside that bothers him. Jon being brushed aside is one thing—a complicated tangle of feelings he doesn’t have space to sort through, so he holds that thought somewhere else. A promotion that’s all. After such a thoughtless and likely meaningless statement _that_ is all Peter Lukas came down here to say.

“ _By the way_ ,” Martin repeats, unable to keep the incredulousness out of his tone. He’s speechless.

“Oh, do forgive me. I had assumed the way you’d spoken about it and refused counseling or even accepted a longer time off meant you weren’t really bothered. Can’t say I blame you; parents aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. You certainly don’t _seem_ too broken up about it,” Peter justifies and watches him carefully. There’s no sympathy in his eyes and while Martin hadn’t expected any, his words are cutting, cold and empty.

What’s worse is he’s not wrong.

“Of course I am, she—she was my mother, she’s the reason I was born in the first place. Isn’t that enough?” He argues, weakly aware it’s difficult to believe in his own words. 

“So what? Look Martin, in the end we only have ourselves. Whatever she was—whoever she was, it doesn’t matter now, and frankly, it doesn’t really seem like it did before she died. Now you have time to move past it. Figure out who you want to be.” 

Martin wants to keep chasing the anger, deny him and let it all come pouring out. He still has it in him, knows it’s in the tremor of his voice and his arms that won’t stop shaking.

“Go where? It’s not like there’s anything left. What _promotion_ did you even come down here to propose?”

Finally, Peter shows a little interest.

“You Beholding types really do love questions. It’s simple though, I need an assistant to reorganize this place. Someone like you. You’re the only one suitable for it, really. And in return, I’ll help you figure things out and maybe even get back at Elias. It’ll be fun.”

Oddly, seeing the captain only act so animated because he asked the right question, and not actually because he’d expressed an emotion is a relief. It should feel frustrating that it’s seemingly ignored, but mostly it’s just nice it isn’t denied.

“Is that all?” Martin asks, exhausted.

“Mm… almost. I’m familiar with funerals, so if you need advice on arrangements, ask away,” Peter finishes as he returns to the same blasé indifference he’d started their conversation with. It was another sentiment surely he either didn’t mean or knew Martin had no intention of taking him up on. 

“That’s… surprisingly kind of you. I think I’ll be fine on my own though.”

“Suit yourself,” Peter answers with a smile that looks almost pleased, before he’s gone as quietly as he came in.

Martin takes another breath unbothered by the chill slowly setting in. Two hours and a weekend of funeral plans left—then he can figure out where to go from here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got around to adding that extra little bit in honor of petermartin week!! today's prompt was funeral | comfort which fit pretty aptly with this fic already so! away we go.

By far, the worst part of the arrangements and the funeral itself are the sideways stares, well muttered wishes and sympathetic eyes shared when Martin states there won’t be anyone else attending. His father is somewhere he will likely never find out about, a figure that’s been absent for as long as he can remember and who he suspects would decline an invite even if he had known. As for the rest of his mother’s relatives, his aunts and uncles had been ambivalent about coming, stating excuses as to why they would be missing it and sharing condolences all the same.

So it is just him, one of the nurses she apparently had gotten close to and the pastor out in the graveyard, her coffin being slowly lowered into a plot and soon to be forgotten. No, not forgotten, merely neglected.

Martin already knows with what’s awaiting him back at the institute, he won’t have any time to visit. It’s a nice lie he tells himself, a plaster to put over the spiteful, ugly feelings threatening to claw out of the thought—how even in death, she likely wouldn’t appreciate the company.

When it’s over, the pastor offers him a cup of tea, but he doesn’t wish to stay and be gently coaxed into talking. The kind gesture is only distorted as those cacophonous and awful truths wish to overtake him, and as tired as he is, it’s in his best interest to finish what he needs to and get back to the institute. Bury himself in work.

He doesn’t expect Peter to call later that evening. He’d already told the captain he didn’t need help, something he hadn’t even believed the other to be sincere about when offering. So it must be business, and that is the only reason Martin picks up because the notion of a distraction as much as he’d rather be alone right now is good.

“So how did it go?” Peter asks, sounding far more enthused than he should when the topic was a funeral. Martin wonders what even possessed him to ask.

“What do you think?”

“Depends, are you still mourning?”

Martin tells himself it’s the seconds he counts back anger as to why he’s quiet, but the truth is he doesn’t have the energy to convincingly lie. He’s been doing it all day. Giving smiles that are empty and pretending like he had any emotion left to give watching that casket sink into the ground.

“Just get to what you wanted; I’ve had a long day.” 

Peter obliges him. Explains precisely what he’s been thinking about in terms of changes, pausing only briefly to confirm Martin will still take the position.

“It’ll get you out of those dusty archives and in a proper office. Give you some peace and quiet.”

The phrasing makes him think of Jon so abruptly that his heart aches. It sounds nice though right now, as his tears stay firmly behind his eyelids, and his voice only betraying a slight tremor. He’s getting used to the feeling, and almost as soon as he assures himself that, the thought is echoed across the phone.

“It gets easier, just give it time.”

Martin doesn’t want those words to be as comforting as they are, but they make him feel better. Assured that even if the pain never leaves, that the hole he’s always felt strangely sure of in his heart never does quite fill, it will dull and he will be fine. He will be okay.

His mother isn’t okay.

Basira and Melanie aren’t okay.

Jon may never be okay again.

“Do you want to be alone?” Peter asks, with an off sounding anticipation in his tone.

“Please,” Martin requests, and doesn’t wait for an answer before ending the call. There isn’t anything left to discuss.

On Monday, he will return to the Magnus Institute, collect his things from the tiny archival assistants’ office that he never quite felt he belonged in either, and make his way upstairs to the head of the institute’s office. Peter will show him his new desk and leave him with a list of all the things he wants done.

And then Martin will be alone. He will not know whether the sensation of being watched, which has always permeated the building will be because of the portraits on the wall or because Peter might still be in the room.

As weeks turn into months, steadily he will not care.


End file.
